Unnatural
by Ged
Summary: An irreverent stab at all things Supernatural, and guaranteed to offend just about everyone. Think outside the square!  Some strong language.   Begins mid Season 2.  Chapts 1 & 2 revised.  Chapt 3 up.
1. The Power Without

_An irreverent stab at all things Supernatural, and guaranteed to offend just about everyone. _

_Character names have been kept for obvious reasons – again, think outside the square!_

_Some strong language. Sense of humour advised._

_Begins mid Season 2._

**1. The Power Without**

Jo observed her reflection in the full length mirror. Apart from the couch, it was all that remained in her trailer, other items like the coffee table, kettle, microwave, her small closet with all its contents, having mysteriously disappeared one by one over the past few weeks. Even her trailer, originally positioned within close proximity to the boys', had seemed to inch its way further and further from the set, so that she now found herself at the back of the lot with an unrivalled view of the trash bins. Any further away, and she'd be in the public parking lot. Had she not already felt completely paranoid about her role, this slow and deliberate ousting would have kept her analyst busy for months. As it was, she tried to remain philosophical. After all, nothing was ever as it seemed.

She tugged at her shirt and shucked the sleeves above her elbows. Nope. Nothing she did was going to make her look as cool as Dean. _Ah, Dean! _Talk about dangling a carrot. Even a blind man could see there was no way she was going to snag the show's stud. A chaste peck on the cheek was as close as she'd gotten and that was now such a distant memory she wasn't even sure it had happened. The carrot wasn't just hovering out of reach; it had been snatched away by the fans and eaten, stalk and all.

And then there was the Impala. The lack of weapons. Her mother. How could she project the image of a kick-ass hunter when all she was good for was running errands? _Jo, get this. Jo, fetch that_. Christ! She didn't even have her own car.

'Are you freaking nuts?' Eric had yelled when she'd broached the subject. 'The fans would lynch me if I let you drive that car. No-one – I repeat, _no-one_ - drives the Impala except Dean and Sam!'

'And the stunt drivers!' she'd retorted bitterly.

'Oh, what? Now you want to be a stunt driver too? Sheesh!'

But in the face of her abject misery, he'd softened, patting her on the shoulder. 'Look, I'm not saying you won't get a chance. Just wait and see.'

And, true to his word, while he hadn't exactly let her drive it, Eric had finally given her a ride in the hallowed vehicle; in the backseat while her mother rode shotgun with Dean. Oh yeah, that had done wonders for her tough-girl persona.

So, no car, no real weapons, no freedom; all she had was a silly little knife and even Dean had scoffed at that. She reached into her back pocket and, pulling out the offending item, flicked open the blade. She brandished it at the mirror and slowly smiled. Well, if this was all she had to work with, she'd better make sure she could use it to good effect. After all, a girl could do a lot of damage with a knife – no matter how small.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam nudged Dean. 'Don't look now but here comes your doppelganger.'

Dean grunted, and continued to spoon macaroni cheese onto his plate. The girl behind the servery watched, aghast.

'Dude, that stuff's gonna kill you,' Sam drawled.

'But what a way to go, eh?' Dean mumbled through a mouthful of garlic bread. He winked at the girl, who blushed with impure thoughts and quickly proffered a side serving of chili fries. Sam was pretty sure the girl would have offered herself too, given half a chance, but Dean settled happily for the fries and moved on.

A sharp tap on his shoulder brought him up short. He shot a glance at his brother, who shrugged helplessly.

'Warned you,' Sam muttered.

'Yeah, you're a regular wingman,' Dean hissed before whirling to face the girl behind him and feigning delight. 'Well look who's here! Mini Me!'

'Don't call me that!' Jo spat.

'Okay.' Dean sucked on his straw, raising a couple of fingers in salute. 'Hey Sis!'

'Don't be so childish.' Jo's arms were crossed in annoyance and one foot agitated the ground. Dressed in a blue flannel shirt over a grey tee, faded jeans that hugged her in all the right places and boots that Dean suspected were steel-capped, she really did look like his feminine alter ego. It was downright scary. Only her hair, curled long and gleaming gold, was a dead give-away. Dean sighed regretfully.

'Not my idea sweetheart. I'm at their mercy, same as you.'

Jo snorted. 'More than you know.'

'Wouldn't be the first time,' he said, shrugging. He felt sorry for Jo – who on the set didn't? – but he was beginning to see why the fans didn't like her. She was an itch he was no longer able to scratch, and it was bugging the hell out of him. So, he resorted to doing what he did best.

'Bitch!'

'Jerk!' Jo yelled, too quick for Sam.

'Hey!' he protested mildly. 'That's my line.'

Dean glanced around and commandeered a nearby table. He pulled up a couple of chairs, sat down and motioned quickly for Sam to do the same. 'Mind if we eat while you talk?' he asked Jo and was rewarded with one of Sam's shut-the-fuck-up glares.

'Er, Jo?' Sam asked carefully. 'What happened to your fingers?'

She whipped her hands behind her back, too late to hide the wad of bandages.

Dean shook his head. 'Tsk, Tsk. Been playing with knives again?'

'Shut up!' she hissed.

Dean chortled. 'Annie Oakley eat your heart out.'

Jo drew herself up to her full height, which had never been overly impressive and was less so now since her role had diminished. Even the extra lift in the boots did nothing to help. She lifted one bandaged paw and poked it at Dean's face.

'I can't be Annie Oakley!' she wailed miserably. 'They won't give me a gun!'

Dean cocked a philosophical eyebrow and chewed some more. 'Darlin', if you can do that to your own hands with one little knife, it's no wonder.'

'Bite me!' Jo challenged.

'Well Sis, I'd like to, but I'm pretty sure it's against the law,' Dean quipped. He paused, waving his fork in the air, then added, 'Except maybe in some parts of West Virginia.'

'Funny,' Jo said, rolling her eyes. Her anger was barely contained, and Sam recoiled from the impending explosion. His appetite now completely ruined, he poked morosely at his food.

Oblivious, Dean pointed his fork at Jo. 'Don't worry. I'm sure if you ask nicely, Props will give you a rubber knife to practice with.'

'Rubber this!' Jo shouted, flicking up her little finger, the only one not completely encased with cotton gauze. 'I'm sure you have one that fits!' And with that she stormed off, boots clicking furiously upon the pavement.

Dean gazed after her. 'Momma would be so proud.'

Sam pushed his plate away. 'You know Dean, she has a point.'

Dean bristled and shot a quick glance south. 'Hey man, nothing wrong with the size of…' He stopped, relieved. 'Oh, you mean about the sister thing.'

'Yeah. I mean she came in here expecting … well, expecting big things …'

Dean glanced at his groin again and grinned. 'Dude.'

Sam glared at him. 'Could we just try, for once, keeping the conversation at a level above your waist?'

Dean shrugged doubtfully. 'We can try.'

Sam sighed. 'Look, all I'm saying is it's not Jo's fault. You could cut her a bit of slack. I mean have you even bothered to read any of the stuff they're saying about her?' Sam shook his head in disgust.

'Sammy, I've told you before. You gotta stay away from the fandoms. They'll do your head in.'

He paused, eyeing Sam's half empty plate, before reluctantly dragging his gaze away. 'Look, I do feel sorry for Jo. You don't think I wanted big things for her too? And no, I don't mean it that way, so quit looking at me like that. It's like I said before, this is a rough gig, and this time Jo drew the short straw.'

'But Dean, don't you ever want to find someone and settle down? Don't you want to stop bed hopping? Don't you want to find happiness in the arms of one woman?'

Dean gazed at his brother in horror and pushed back his chair. He stood, scattering crumbs like confetti. 'Hell no! You've been reading fan fiction again, haven't you? Christ Sammy, you'll be the death of me one day.'

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Dean was bored. He fidgeted in the chair while Kristie buzzed around and dabbed at his face. She was quick, her movements deft and Dean knew when she finished he'd look like he'd just gone ten rounds with Tyson.

'Any truth to the rumour about Jo?' he asked finally. Sam's words were still plaguing him.

'Sit still,' Kristie commanded as she applied more blood to his face. 'Which rumour?'

'There's more than one?' He tried to turn his head in her direction, but she clocked him over the head. 'Ow!'

'Sit still!' Kristie eyed him critically. 'Well, there's talk that she's out after this episode. But then Babs – you know, from Wardrobe? – heard they were planning this big arc to resurrect her later on. And Sally swears she overheard Eric and Kim talking about Jo being possessed. Although if you ask me I'm not sure she isn't already.' She paused, and selected a different paint, before continuing. 'Ellen just wants her little girl back to tend bar, lazy cow. But Roger – he's one of the cleaners and gets to read all the confidential memos before anyone remembers to shred them - is pretty sure she'll be back for at least one more epi. And then there's all the talk by the fans.'

'What talk?' Dean asked guardedly. He wasn't sure he wanted confirmation. He was sick of Sam always being right.

'Oh, you know, the usual. That Jo should disappear and never return, preferably having died a grisly and horrible death. It's only a matter of time. We're all betting on how long she'll last. You want in?'

'Er, thanks, I'll pass. How're you doing?' Dean was intrigued, despite himself.

'I'm already down five hundred, so I sure hope I pull in the big one. Paul in Sets has some information he's not sharing with_ anyone_, the bastard. Still, you gotta be in it to win it, right?' Kristie touched up his hair and stood back to survey her work. 'You're done.'

'So which rumour is true then?' Dean pressed for more information.

Kristie shrugged and replied cryptically, 'Depends on who you think's running this show.'

Strangely, Dean didn't find this at all comforting.

----------------------------------------------------------------

'Hey Jo, wait up!' Dean called. He still hadn't removed his makeup since shooting his last scene, and though he looked like an accident victim just shy of his last breath, not a head turned on the lot. Dean wondered what would happen if someone really did need medical attention. They'd probably apply cold cream before ever considering CPR.

The girl turned in his direction and scowled. He couldn't be sure, but she looked even smaller than before. To be honest, Dean thought, she was lucky to be leaving now. If she stayed any longer they'd have her in pigtails and wearing a retainer. He tried not to think dirty thoughts.

'What do you want?' she asked.

Dean stood uncertainly before her. Now he had the opportunity, he wasn't quite sure how to begin. Apologies didn't come easily to Dean. She waited, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

'Look,' he muttered eventually. 'I'm sorry about the way things worked out between us.'

She dismissed his words with a head toss. 'Save it. Actually, I'm glad it's happened this way. I get my freedom and you … well, you get your fans.'

'Hey, just so you know, I was all for the original idea.' He grinned ruefully, regaining some of his bravado. 'You know me, any chance to screw … _Oh,_ _Shit!_'

Jo stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, deep satisfaction having replaced her earlier misery. Dean hopped on one leg, cradling the other in his hands.

'You obviously haven't read the latest memo, have you?' she said sweetly. 'Bye Dean, and good luck. You're going to need it.'

'Christ!' Dean swore and rubbed his shin. He'd been right. The boots were steel capped. 'What memo?' he shouted at her back. '_What fucking memo?_'

----------------------------------------------------------------------

It took Jo over an hour to locate her trailer, wedged behind the public lavatories just beyond the perimeter of the lot. Her mood wasn't improved by what awaited her inside or, more precisely, what didn't. The mirror was gone and her couch had been replaced with a bean bag.

**tbc**


	2. It's Not What You Say

**2. It's Not What You Say**

'Well that sucks,' Dean said, tossing the memo onto the table.

Everyone seated around the conference table shuffled nervously in their chairs, a few stared out the single window that stretched high across one wall; those who couldn't see the view of the parking lot wished they could but instead had to contend with admiring the dull wood grain of the table top. Eric shook his head and sighed.

'What'd I say? Dean asked, bewildered.

The silence was broken at last by the jangling of a coin tin held in a delicate, long fingered hand. Jayme C. Basken, dubbed Jiminy by most of the crew, coughed pointedly and shook the tin again in Dean's direction.

Dean's eyes narrowed. 'Thanks man, but I get paid enough.'

He didn't like Jayme. Too skinny, pale-faced and a network minion, Dean considered the man nothing more than a slimy, ass-licking, one-stinking-rung-at-a-time ladder climber. And that was on a good day. Appointed the CW's watchdog, Jayme sat in on just about every staff meeting except, of course, the ones in which any real decisions were made; the ones Eric held in clandestine surrounds at odd hours of the day and night.

Jayme pursed his lips disapprovingly. 'You cussed.'

'No I didn't.' Dean spread his hands disbelievingly and searched for support. Only Sam, next to him, met his gaze, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. Eric had sunk his head onto the table and was thumping it none too gently.

'Yes you _did_.' Jayme was prim but adamant. 'You said _sucks_. That's a quarter in the tin.'

'You gotta be kidding me! Eric? What the fuck-' He broke off with a grunt as Sam's shoe connected with his ankle.

'Oh, that's a nasty one. Seventy-five cents!' Jayme crowed triumphantly.

'Bite me!' Dean snarled, shifting his feet to avoid another blow from Sam.

'A dollar!' Jayme was wriggling with ecstasy. Any moment now, Dean thought, and he'd wet his pants with excitement.

'_Bite me_ is not swearing,' Dean protested, incredulous.

'That's a matter of opinion. Either way, it's rude and inflammatory,' snapped Jayme and waved the offending memo in the air. 'And, according to point four in this document, it constitutes a fine!' He rattled the tin again.

Dean sat back and shook his head. 'You're serious.'

'I'm afraid so. Now pay up.'

Dean shot a look at Sam before fishing in the front pocket of his jeans. Every woman in the room sighed wistfully. He pulled out a few notes and threw them onto the table in disgust.

Jayme carefully selected one and pushed it into the tin. 'You only owe one dollar,' he said, frowning.

Dean shrugged. 'Consider the rest payment in advance.'

'No need to get uppity.' Jayme, his point having been made, was struggling with being conciliatory. Unfortunately, Dean was in no mood to help him out.

'No prizes for guessing what your middle initial stands for,' he drawled.

'Why you-!' Jayme launched himself across the table at Dean, screaming abuse. Ten pairs of hands were needed to restrain him as he fought to reach his target. Only after the man had been dragged from the room, spitting and cursing, did Dean deign to comment.

'I guess the little shit's gonna need a bigger fucking tin.'

---------------------------------------------------------------

Jo slumped in her bean bag, out of sight of passers-by. The trailer was gone, but she'd fought to keep the bean bag. It was a small victory, but at this stage any win was better than none at all. Without the trailer, she'd been forced to flit between broom closets just to find some privacy, but today was warm and bright and, sandwiched between the walls of a small alley, she nestled into the vinyl and lifted her face to the sun. If her situation wasn't so dire, she might have found more joy in the moment.

Roger had been right after all. Jo had been dragged back in for another episode. But while she suspected it was simply an excuse to put her character to bed – sadly not Dean's - it wasn't panning out in quite the way she'd hoped. For one, she was still tending bar; in a hole-in-the-wall dive so sleazy it made the Roadhouse look like a feature in _Homes of the Rich and Famous._ Two, she still didn't possess a car and worse, seemed to have lost the knife. But the greatest ignominy was that she'd been proved right; Dean hadn't called her like he'd promised.

Jo shook her head sadly. Men; they never meant what they said.

She should have left the bullet in him.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The writers huddled around a small table that was balanced precariously on only three legs. An old broom handle acted as the fourth, tilting the table top just enough that coffee cups, pens and papers had to be held to avoid ending up on the dusty floor. The light was dim, and the air stale. Eric was used to finding out-of-the-way places for meetings, far from the prying eyes and cocked ears of the network, but this was the worst.

'How did this happen?' Sera asked Eric. Always demonstrative, she'd raised her hands to convey her confusion, and then swore as her unbound copy of the latest script slid off the table and carpeted the floor.

'Who knows? It started in the fan fiction forums; rules and regulations about inappropriate language, keeping everything within the context of the show. It just spread from there. The network got wind of it and decided to clean up its act. It wants to show the viewers that it _cares_.' Eric sighed. 'Basically, it's a load of crap.'

The team eyed each other nervously. Nothing irritated them more than having their creativity stifled by the demands of the viewers and there wasn't a single person in the room whose pocket hadn't been hit by the new rules. As a joke, Dean had drawn up a tally sheet of everyone's indiscretions, but his outright lead had sparked unforeseen competition. Now, even those people who'd never before considered using foul language were swaggering around the lot, mouthing off like dock workers. Things were getting out of hand and the network wasn't happy.

So, in a childish attempt to ensure everyone knew who owned the sandbox, the CW were now making noises about imposing the same restrictions on scripts, a directive that had every writer shuddering.

'How do we work around it?' Raelle asked.

Eric flipped open the large bound volume in front of him. Titled _Useful Euphemisms for the Dirty Minded_, it contained the network's latest regulations. Just shy of two hundred and thirty pages, the guide was a minefield guaranteed to remove the legs from just about any creative project.

'In all fairness to the network, this isn't HBO, so we've always had to work within the broadcasting restrictions. This directive, if it's enforced, is just going to make things a little trickier,' Eric explained. 'It's not like we use outright profanity anyway, but the inference is always there, just under the surface, and because it's integral to characterization, we want to hang on to it.'

He looked around at his team. They'd all worked so hard to make this show what it was. This was just another inconvenience that would need to be dealt with and he didn't want it cramping their style. 'Honestly? I don't think we have anything to worry about, but we need to be aware of the dos and don'ts.'

He slid the manual across the table for others to see. 'I've marked the pages relevant to us. Read them and learn just how far you can stretch the parameters.'

Cathryn skimmed over it and looked up. 'Who the hell talks like this?' She sighed. 'So basically we can show, but we can't tell?'

Eric shrugged. 'Apparently, as long as it's tastefully done, nudity, sex scenes, fights – even decapitation - are acceptable. Direct reference to it is going to be much trickier to handle.'

'But that's ridiculous!' exclaimed Ben. 'Ninety percent of Dean's dialogue is hunting and sex. This is tantamount to gagging him.'

'Not to mention cutting off his balls,' Sera muttered, bitterly. She was rather partial to Dean's balls, having contributed greatly to their development over the past year.

Eric nodded. 'But this is where we're luckier than most. Dean and Meg, even Sam, set the precedent in previous seasons, so even the network realizes that a sudden clamp down will be detrimental. My take on this is we're safe to carry on with what we've got. We'll just have to be careful with new material.'

'So Dean can keep calling everyone a bitch?'

Eric nodded. 'I don't see why not.'

'But _bang_ still means _fuck_?' Sera asked.

'Yeah. Except when it means bang.'

'So what do we do with this?' Cathryn waved the manual in the air. 'Ignore it?'

Eric took it from her and shook his head. 'I don't think we should.'

----------------------------------------------------------

Eric, as usual, was the last to leave. He felt relieved, his spirits buoyed by the creative frenzy that had followed his earlier assurances to his team. Careful to switch off the light, he closed and locked the door behind him. No evidence of their gathering remained, except for the thick book wedged firmly beneath one of the table legs, the network's directive having been put to good use after all.

**tbc**


	3. Treading the Boards

**3. Treading the Boards**

Eric paced the office nervously. Reaching across the desk, he buzzed the intercom again. 'Leslie? Are they here yet?'

'No, Mister Kripke. Not yet.' Leslie was a great PA, but not quite good enough to hide the annoyance in her voice.

For the umpteenth time, Eric wondered why he'd agreed to this charade. He, more than anyone, understood the validity of having a dedicated fan base, but the truth was the fans scared the hell out of him. Too sharp, too critical, too passionate; they were more demanding than an A list celebrity, but without the bankability.

He'd worked for years nursing his idea, from conception to birth. He'd put in the hard yards and the sleepless nights; he'd suffered through the teething problems, and changed thousands of shitty diapers. He'd nursed. He'd pampered. He'd clucked under the chin. He'd watched those first steps, heard those first words. And now, like some goddamn anonymous social worker armed with all the right forms, his supporters were questioning his parenting skills.

The door swung open and Leslie ushered in a small crowd. One man stepped forward, hand extended. 'Mr Kripke? Jim Manners.'

The introduction made, Jim motioned for the others to take their seats, while Eric returned to his helm behind the desk; even pretending to be in control was better than nothing. He eyed the men across from him. They were all much older and, well _bigger_ than he'd anticipated, making his large office feel cramped and claustrophobic. All of them were dressed in army fatigues.

'I like the outfits,' Eric said conversationally.

Jim removed his Ray-Bans and stared at him grimly. 'It's a jungle out there. We believe in being prepared.'

'Oh, right,' said Eric, faintly. He had no idea what the man was talking about, and he feared to find out.

Jim assumed a casual stance – as casual as he was ever likely to get, Eric thought - legs apart, hands clasped behind him. His back, however, remained ramrod straight and his gaze was directed disconcertingly at a spot above Eric's head and slightly to the right. When he spoke it was with the monotony of an overly-rehearsed speech.

'In accordance with our brief, SNEAK successfully infiltrated a number of _Supernatural_ online fandoms. This,' he indicated the men behind him, 'is the team.'

As Jim barked their names, each man stood to attention, adopting the same at-ease position as their leader. '_snookums666!_ _angelwings!_ _deansluv524! sammywammy69!_ _SNsister!_ _ImpaleMe!_' He leaned forward and whispered, 'It was supposed to be ImpalaMe, but he hit the wrong key.'

Eric, completely bemused, pointed to two men still sitting in the far corner of the office. 'Um …you've missed a couple.'

Jim turned and motioned for the men to stand. '_RadicalThinker_ and _I'mAlwaysRight_ are two of my best men. Both have degrees in Religious Philosophy, Ancient History and Anthropology, Masters in Comparative Religion and _RadicalThinker_ speaks Ancient Greek and Latin fluently. We felt these were necessary requirements for successful infiltration into TWOP. As it turned out, we weren't even close.'

Jim waved a hand and, as one, all his men sat down again. Eric struggled to assimilate the absurd tags with each burly figure, but couldn't.

'And their real names..?' he asked.

Jim frowned. 'That's on a strictly need-to-know basis, Mr Kripke.'

'Right! Yes, I see,' Eric said, actually not seeing at all.

Jim cracked his knuckles loudly, making Eric cringe, and said, 'Okay, I'll begin. You're well aware of our success rate. SNEAK is a crack team and we've tackled some of the most insidious groups imaginable: terrorist cells, anti-establishment clusters, even the free-Paris-Hilton movement - a dark period in all our lives we'd prefer to forget. But I have to tell you that your fans are some of the toughest we've ever had to deal with.'

'Oh?' Eric began to feel queasy. 'How so?'

'Firstly, it appears that eighty-two point five six nine percent of your fan base is divided into two distinct camps: Sam supporters and Dean lovers.'

Eric frowned. While the percentage was a useful thing to know, this statement was hardly a revelation. He already spent a major part of every day trying to please both groups of fans, a task both exhausting and utterly thankless.

Jim went on. 'Of more concern to us is the steadfast passion that these two groups possess. Indeed, so daunting are some of your show's more serious viewers, we've actually decided to pull the team out altogether.'

Eric's queasiness had developed into outright nausea. He swallowed nervously, secretly glad that he'd had the foresight to use SNEAK in the first place. _Better them than me_.

'Please understand, Mr Kripke. My men are some of the most resilient you'll ever meet; resourceful, cunning, adaptable, professional. There is no job too difficult, no group too fearsome, and no ideology too sacred that will deter them from carrying out their work. That is, until we worked for you.'

Jim paused and sighed loudly. Eric debated buzzing Leslie and asking for a round of coffees, but he was already wanting this meeting to be over. Coffee, and all the social niceties that went with it, would only prolong his agony. So he sat on his hands and waited for the man to continue.

'When we took on this assignment, Mr Kripke, we treated it like any other job. We did our reconnaissance, built up our profiles, planned our entry and plotted our getaway. But nothing prepared us for the ambush awaiting us in those forums.

'_Sammywammy69_ was reduced to tears when he mistakenly entered a Dean chat group and posted a one line comment about Sam's destiny. _SNsister_ is undergoing sex counseling after stumbling across a Wincest forum. _Angelwings_ was given the task of peacemaker and flitted from thread to thread and forum to forum trying to unite the fanbase. Unfortunately his fence-sitting inspired so much mistrust he's now applying to enter the witness protection program. When _Deansluv524_ made the fatal error of starting his thread, '_Why I love the Roadhouse Crew_', he was mercilessly attacked and forced to leave the fan forum. His username has since been deleted and all records of his existence, gone.'

Eric glanced at _Sammywammy69_. As wide as he was tall, hands like hams, his face inscrutable; Eric tried to imagine the man in floods of tears, and couldn't.

'This is a joke, right?' he laughed hopefully.

'I'm afraid not,' Jim growled. '_Snookums666_ was given what we thought to be the easiest task of all: reading fan fiction. After deciphering and reviewing over five hundred pieces, a mandatory medical and psychological examination followed, during which it was discovered he'd lost thirteen percent of his vision and twenty-six percent of his intellect! He is now under review for early retirement.'

Yes, now that it had been pointed out, Eric could see the faint tremors in the man's hands, and a discernable twitch in his left cheek. The eyes were completely vacant however, and Eric wondered what sort of sedation Snookums was under and whether he could have any. His stomach now churned audibly.

'Is any of this sinking in, Mr Kripke?'

'No. I mean, yes!' Eric assured Jim, then added morosely, 'Actually, no.'

'I realize it's probably a shock. God knows, it was to us.'

'But it can't be _that_ bad, surely?' Eric insisted, staring at Jim in disbelief. _Oh God! _Were those tears?

Jim rubbed his eyes and glared. 'You think? _I'mAlwaysRight_ and _RadicalThinker_ fared only slightly better at TWOP. Things began well enough; you know, the usual debates about the show: the acting, characterization, guest appearances, sets, realistic dialogue, urban myths, etcetera, etcetera. Only when - as instructed by you - they introduced the idea of more regular cast members and, based on social and anthropological merits, possible prolonged love interests for both Sam and Dean, did things get out of hand.'

Jim placed his hands on the desk and leaned over, eyeballing Eric. '_RadicalThinker_ was quick enough to redeem his persona. Transforming himself into a snarky pseudo-intellectual has now established him as one of that forum's leading members. Despite our misgivings, he's asked to stay on as your eyes and ears. You can expect fortnightly reports.

'Sadly, _I'mAlwaysRight_ didn't make it. He was ripped to shreds in a grisly scene that rendered your show about as gruesome as a teddy bear's picnic.'

_ImAlwaysRight_ – who clearly wasn't - hung his head in shame and Eric actually found himself feeling sorry for the guy.

There was a long silence. Eric was obviously supposed to say something, but he was still struggling to come to terms with the fallout from his little experiment. He now felt violently ill.

'So, that's it then?' he mumbled eventually.

Jim smiled grimly. 'Well, that's the worst of it anyway. But all is not lost. Despite the carnage, we did manage to corroborate a few things. The report will be sent through to you later this week.'

'Oh?' Eric perked up. 'Anything I need to know right now?'

'In a nutshell? Sam supporters want to see more of Sam. Dean supporters want to see more of Dean. The handful of Jo supporters are hoping she'll be brought back while the rest of the fans are still celebrating her not-so-subtle exit. More monsters, more Dean angst, more Bobby, less Ellen, explanation of Sam's arc, yellow-eyed demon resolution. John is to be resurrected – in his old body, despite the fact that it's charred beyond recognition; Mary's history should be explored further and where the hell is Meg and why did you have to kill off the actress who played her?' Jim paused. 'Oh, and nearly all the supporters – well, the vocal ones, at any rate – want to see the Roadhouse gone; erased, obliterated, annihilated, destroyed, expunged, wiped off the face of the earth-'

Eric held up a weary hand. 'Yeah, yeah. I get the idea.' He grimaced. 'And what about getting in some new characters?'

Jim stepped back and flicked a hand. His team, as one, stood up and began filing out the door. 'Mr Kripke, whether you intended to or not, you've created a monster. I would be very, very careful about what you feed it.'

Turning, he followed his men, leaving Eric sitting alone and suddenly very afraid. The problem wasn't finding the right ingredients to satisfy his monster's hunger; it was ensuring that, while slipping tidbits into the cage, he didn't get bitten.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam closed the laptop gently. All it had taken was one post to bring him out of lurkdom and spark the addiction. Now there was no stopping. It hadn't been as scary as he'd thought. Some people were even interested in what he had to say. Like _RadicalThinker_. Sensible and articulate, she had a great sense of humour and, Sam was certain, was probably just as nice offline as she seemed to be on.

Really, he thought, all this nonsense about spies on the boards was getting out of hand.

**tbc**


End file.
